De Lucci’s Obsession
: Chapter 1

“Are you sure, Ava?”

Mom’s scratchy voice came through the receiver I had cradled between my neck and shoulder while my fingers fiddled with the coffee machine.

“I’m so sorry to—”

“Mom,” I stopped her apology. “You sound awful this morning. You had no business working yesterday either.”

“Our last intern quit. Tommy needed help in the kitchen.”

Thomas “Tommy” O’Connell was a long-time chef at Eamonn’s, our family-owned Irish pub. He learned to be a chef from the school of hard-knocks and had no patience for the interns from culinary schools.

I chuckled, my mood starting to improve as the aroma of life-saving brew teased my nose. Life-saving for other people around me that was. Admittedly, I was an ornery person first thing in the morning. After studying for my midterms until midnight and then getting jarred awake at four, a challenging day was, no doubt, in my future.

“Yes, he’s old school,” I answered. “Anyway, I have to hop in the shower if I’m to make it to the pub in time for deliveries.”

After ending the call, I trudged back to the bedroom with my mug of coffee. I lived in a brownstone belonging to a group of properties owned by the McGrath clan. This one had been renovated into two-household living. I dwelt on the third floor, while my brother Robert and his family occupied the first and second. We shared one staircase with convenient landings leading to the entrance of each floor.

While in the shower, I mentally sorted my attire for the day. It was a no-brainer: jeans, Keds, and a flannel shirt with a tank underneath. The thick material and long sleeves should protect me from any unwanted burns. I could shed the layer if it got too hot in the kitchen as long as I wasn’t working the stove.

Sufficiently awakened by the shower and after mainlining eight ounces of caffeine, I filled up my travel mug from the fancy coffee maker that I confiscated from my ex-boyfriend when he and his rock band left for the Pandora Resort in Vegas. The breakup caught me by surprise. I wasn’t bitter, or so I told myself. I was telling myself a lie. Because here I was, five months later, depending on this coffee machine to get me through the day at the same time it reminded me I was a disposable girlfriend.

On my way out the door, I grabbed my leather jacket, my pity-party squashed by a smugness that at four-thirty, I was on the road, thirty-five minutes after Mom called me. I wasn’t an au naturel girl by any stretch. I knew when to primp up and when to dress down. No use letting sweat bleed over my foundation with only good old Tommy as a witness. If I was waitressing, I’d put on make-up and probably stuff tissues in my bra. My brothers frowned when I did this, but I’d proven that considering all services being equal, bigger boobs and a winsome smile scored better tips.

In the time it took me to drive from Brooklyn, across the Pulaski bridge, and into Manhattan, twenty-five minutes had passed. I pumped the brakes when the light turned yellow, slowing down my Toyota until it stopped at an intersection on 3^rd Avenue and 44th. Drumming my fingers on the wheel, I checked the clock. Gorski should be at the restaurant in ten minutes. I had plenty of time to make it.

A dark sedan pulled up beside my vehicle, triggering an involuntary jolt in my chest. I glanced over at the driver in a feigned casual appraisal which he returned with his own perfunctory look before the road ahead regained his attention.

When the light turned green, my car rolled forward while his turned right.

I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that I was being watched ever since a photographer took my picture standing outside Eamonn’s. He said he was with The New York Times, and they were writing an article on the Hell’s Kitchen bar scene. When I said he should have asked permission first, he cheekily asked me right then and there if he could use it.

I asked to look at his ID. He immediately offered it up and it all checked out. Although in retrospect, it was probably faked. The photographer even said I could be mistaken for Katie Moore. Even my ex said I bore a resemblance to the supermodel who made waif chic, so maybe I was flattered a little.

As another excuse for my gullibility, in recent months, our pub was barely keeping its head above water. A bigger, swankier one opened up on the same street, so I figured any publicity was a good reminder for our customers that newer wasn’t always better.

Eamonn’s was an institution. A pub started by my gramps.

That lying ass photographer. I had excitedly told my family that we should be on top of our game and be on the lookout for the Times food critic who’d been known to put on disguises. We had her picture plastered on the wall leading to the kitchen for all our front servers and kitchen staff to see. A few weeks later, The New York Times published a review of our new rival O’Toole’s instead. Not a single word about Eamonn’s but at least the review was only a two star.

As my Toyota made the turn onto 9^th Avenue, my eyes squinted at the higher headlights of a truck in the rear-view mirror. It followed me into the alley behind our pub. Looked like I made it just in time for the delivery.

I coasted into the narrow space beside the dumpster just as Gorski’s truck stopped in front of the loading area. He jumped down from the truck. Gorski was Polish and he’s been our purveyor of meats and seafood for as long as I could remember.

“You taking over for your Ma?” he asked.

“Yup. She isn’t feeling well.” It wasn’t the first time I did this. My eldest brother Sean was a successful investment banker on Wall Street. Six months ago, Robert started his job as assistant prosecutor at the U.S. Attorney’s Office of Southern District of New York (SDNY). My sister-in-law, Mads, pitched in sometimes but with three kids to look after, that was a rarity. That left my brother, Charles, who manned the bar and closed the pub late at night which didn’t make him a good candidate either.

So it was down to me.

“She works too hard.” Gorski went to the back of the truck and unlocked the lift gates, shoving it up. As he prepared to unload our order, I unlocked the door and turned on the lights to the kitchen, heading straight to the locker where I kept some of my things like the assorted bandanas I liked to wear.

I returned to the kitchen and squinted at Gorski. Was he limping? He was pushing the hand truck into our walk-in cooler. His head was down, but with the fluorescent lighting at full force, he couldn’t hide his mottled, swollen cheek.

Frowning, I grabbed the delivery clipboard from the wall and waited for him to emerge. He sighed when his gaze met mine.

“What happened?” I asked.

He handed me the invoice, tilting his chin toward it as if I would replace the answer to my question there. My brows furrowed. Even without checking my clipboard I knew the delivery was short. “It’s Fish and Chips Friday. This haddock won’t be enough.”

Gorski shrugged. “That’s all I have. I’ve tried to split them up for my customers. Even gave you guys more.”

“But why the shortage?”

“Not enough fish?”

“That’s a lie, and you know it.”

He grabbed his cap from his head and fidgeted with it. His beaten-up face was the answer I needed. “How much did they get you for?”

Gorski tried to wave it off like nothing. “Who?”

“The mob.”

“Look.” He waved in my direction with his hat. “Don’t want no trouble, girl. I know your brother is AG, but I’d rather wear this face than end up in some New Jersey landfill. Get me?”

“Oh, Gors…”

“Tell me you get me, girl. Don’t want no trouble for you, too, so leave this alone.”

“Besides … it’s my fault.” His mouth twisted. “That’s all I’m saying ‘bout this. Best get on with my deliveries.” He slapped the hat onto his head and left.

I was left seething, staring at the door where he’d exited. Angry at the situation. Feeling helpless. The thought of filleting haddock, this tainted fish, was the last thing I wanted to do. In the end, my aggression needed an outlet, and there was nothing more soothing than sharpening my boning knife on a whetstone, imagining the faceless soldiers who beat up Gorski.

The Five Families of New York squeezed so much from mom-and-pop shops. Though a few should have known better, most of them didn’t have a choice but to pay the price. Mobsters controlled the labor unions and they controlled construction, they even controlled sanitation and garbage collection. And when a restaurant couldn’t pay up? That was a direct ticket to hell. It wasn’t unheard of to have trash dumped in front of a store when one refused to pay protection money.

However in 1985, SDNY and the FBI did something no one thought was possible. They were able to indict the untouchable bosses of the Five Families, at least the ones who didn’t get assassinated in the ensuing mob war.

They’d been weakened, but their influence never truly went away. They just turned more devious, less blatant. Everything to do with the mob was rumor. No one really wanted to get on record unless they wanted to get capped at the knee or have their fingers broken or disappear into the New Jersey marshlands. One thing that was common knowledge but not publicly discussed was how the United Seafood Workers union was mobbed up. They controlled the loading and unloading of fish from the docks, dictated the prices, and which restaurants got the goods.

Mom didn’t want to do business with the Fulton Fish Market but that would mean taking business away from Gorski who still got his seafood from there. His family had been our supplier for thirty years.

I was still fuming when Tommy walked in at five thirty. He gave me a look and then proceeded to his locker before returning with a mug of coffee. “Your mam sick?” Lean and five-ten, Tommy had a gravelly voice that told of his fondness for his cigarette breaks at the pub’s back alley while the anchor tattoo on his upper arm was a reminder of his time in the Vietnam War. His shrewd gaze burned the side of my face.

“Sick as a dog. We don’t have enough fish to last us past lunch,” I said in the same breath while keeping my attention on the cutting board.

“Gorski got in trouble again?”

“Again?” I looked up. “How often does this happen?”

“Often enough. I was telling your mother we need to switch suppliers. Gorski gambles, you see,” Tommy said. “And the surest way to feed his vice is to borrow from a loan shark.”

I arched a brow. Maybe I could do something about this. “Do you know which one?”

“No.” He looked at me suspiciously. “And you didn’t hear this from me and you’re not doing anything about it.”

“Maybe if I call—”

“No,” Tommy growled. “De Lucci called us to cater a party, and your mam turned him down.”

“Paulie?” I hadn’t talked to him in months. Mostly it was to keep Mom and my brothers happy, but I felt guilty because my friend’s only fault was his family name. Paulie’s father was once the boss of the De Lucci Crime family until his heart attack a couple of years ago. His uncle now ran the family.

“No. A secretary who worked for them.” Tommy started organizing his station. “They’ve been calling a lot lately.”

My eyes narrowed. “For catering?”

“They always have something going on,” he scoffed. “Weddings, engagements, first communions, confirmations etc.”

I couldn’t help grinning. “They may be mafia, but they’re still Italian.”

Tommy snorted. “They hug and kiss each other and act like friends and family, but won’t hesitate to turn on each other. Your mam wants none of that drama to touch us. Next you know, they’ll be coming in and having meetings here.”

“We can’t turn away business just because they happen to be Italian.”

Before Tommy could answer, one of the waitresses, Sheila, walked in. The blonde was always put on the morning shift because she seemed to be one of those unicorns who had a bubbly personality upon waking.

“Good morning!” she chirped.

Tommy mumbled something; I mustered a smile.

“Morning, Sheila.”

“You taking over for your mother today?” she asked.

I gave her the same response I’d given Tommy. We never resumed the thread of our conversation because he had to prepare for the morning rush and I had to filet fish.

At around ten-thirty, I was in the office on the PC to enter the deliveries for the day when the phone rang.

“Eamonn’s.”

“Branna?”

“No, this is her daughter.”

“Ava? This is Carol.”

“Oh, hey, Carol, what’s up?” She was our beverage supplier. I inquired about her family, and she did the same.

“Listen, dear. I would have waited if it wasn’t Friday but needed the money for this weekend’s rent payment.”

“You lost me there.”

“The check bounced, Ava. Ugh, I didn’t want to tell you. I know your mom wouldn’t want you to worry, and it’s probably nothing. But can you let her know?”

My grip on the receiver tightened. “How much?”

She told me. I blew out a breath, mentally calculating how much I had in my bank account. I was saving pocket money for a trip to Ireland, a graduation present from my family.

“I’m not making excuses for Mom, but she wasn’t feeling too well this week and probably didn’t make sure there was enough balance in the bank.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Oh, dear, now I feel bad.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” I exclaimed. Crap, I really didn’t. “If you can send someone here at two, I’ll have the money waiting for you.”

“Thank you so much, kiddo. And I’m sorry Branna isn’t feeling well. Take care, you hear.”

After I hung up, I contemplated the phone for a few seconds longer before scrutinizing the accounting database and invoices.

Thirty minutes later, I’d discovered that Eamonn’s was in the red. Mom had been shuffling money around to keep the creditors at bay. She was doing a fine job, but we weren’t making any money. There was no reason for her to turn down catering jobs because of her pride. An honest job was an honest job. I understood her misgivings, but I also knew Paulie wouldn’t put us in a difficult situation.

I was finishing up notes on what bills needed to be paid first when Charles walked through the door.

“Hey, teacup. Heard you might need some help.” He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you know about this?” I tapped the stack of invoices. “Carol just called and said the check bounced.”

“Dammit.” My brother cursed, resting his hands on his hips as he dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Mom keeps turning down business from the De Luccis. I don’t see a legitimate reason why.”

My brother sighed. “You know how she is. It’s a grudge more than anything else.”

A grudge that included sending Charles and my father, Cillian, to prison. They went to jail six years ago on racketeering charges. Charles served two years and got out. Dad was still in prison. He worked for Paulie’s father and had taken me along when I was younger in an effort to hide his activities from Mom on the pretense of spending time with his only daughter. He left me in their mansion while he went away to do his “collections.” When Mom found out, she kicked Dad out of the house. They’d reconciled on and off over the years, but I wasn’t sure she was taking him back this time. Scratch that. I was sure she wouldn’t. If he hadn’t dragged Charles down with him, then maybe there would have been a chance.

Now my brother had a record.

I had mixed feelings about my father. Famous for his temper, he’d earned his moniker as Red Cillian not only because of his ginger hair, but because of his propensity to draw blood with a single blow. But he never raised a hand at any of us no matter how angry he got. I inherited his red hair. My brothers were all dark like Mom.

“I know, but is holding a grudge worth losing Gramps’ legacy?” Eamonn’s had belonged to Mom’s Da.

“I’ll talk to her.”

I stood and peeled off my flannel shirt and walked over to the coat stand to grab my leather jacket. I yanked open the door. “Do that.”

“Where are you going?” he called after me.

“Going to get business and get Carol her money.”

My brother stalked after me and before I could get to the dining section, he yanked me back to the hallway. Charles could be intimidating if he wanted to. That was why the mafia loved it when he and Dad teamed up.

The fighting McGraths they called them. Both over six-feet and muscular, they trained every day at the boxing gym and could scare the bejesus out of anyone. But right then, those piercing blue eyes did nothing to quail the self-righteousness simmering inside me.

“You are not asking Paulie for charity,” Charles snarled.

“This is not charity. This is business,” I hissed.

“Teacup,” he said, voice gentling. “You shouldn’t even be worrying about this. Worry about your studies. You’re almost done. Don’t be like me who pissed away a college education to become a thug. I can’t even claim my daughter.”

“You can,” I returned. “You just have to show you’re worthy.”

“Then let us—your brothers—talk some sense into Mom.”

“You’ll still need the business, right?” I smiled and wriggled away from him.

“God, you’re so bullheaded,” he grouched. “Phone call. Nothing else. Let us handle the rest.”

I waved him off and left the pub.